


The Science-y Girl and the Curator

by audreyii_fic



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Drabble, Episode: The Day of the Doctor, Gen, Kid Fic, Mentor/Protégé, Pre-Episode: The Day of the Doctor, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:03:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2124639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyii_fic/pseuds/audreyii_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The next day Peggy asks: “What’s your real name?”</p>
<p>The Curator, of course.</p>
<p>"Curator who?"</p>
<p>Just the Curator. Pass my screwdriver — no, the little one, with the blue end — no, the <i>blue</i>, that’s navy — that’s periwinkle — yes, blue, that’s the one, good girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Science-y Girl and the Curator

**Author's Note:**

> A little Day of the Doctor ficlet based on an [elaborate headcanon](http://audreyii-fic.tumblr.com/post/67999370535/happyinchintz72).

 

 

Peggy Osgood, age eight, doesn’t realize the Curator is odd — strange — _barmy_ — until her sister mentions it at dinner.

"Why are you spending all your time with a madman, anyway?" says Chloë out of nowhere, interrupting Peggy as she fails to explain (through a mouthful of pudding) the great importance of re-roofing the Curator’s porch with bits of rainbow umbrella rather than proper tiles. "Everyone’s talking about it."

Mum tells Chloë not to speak poorly of a gentleman who is lonely and slow and perhaps a little _special_ , darling.

"But he doesn’t even have a _name_ ,” Chloë complains. “Who has a friend without a _name_? No one, that’s who.”

Chloë, darling, stop teasing your sister. Peggy, darling, I do think it’s lovely that you help that nice old man with his house, but maybe if you tried a bit harder, Peggy, darling, you would have more friends your own age and Chloë, darling, you should introduce Peggy to some of your schoolmates.

"Everyone I know thinks Peggy is a freak."

Freak is not a nice word, Chloë, darling.

"But she _is_. It’s _embarrassing_.”

Mum sighs.

They wash up the dishes from dinner side by side, Chloë scrubbing, Peggy drying, neither speaking.

 

***

 

The next day Peggy asks: “What’s your real name?”

The Curator, of course.

"Curator who?"

Just the Curator. Pass my screwdriver — no, the little one, with the blue end — no, the _blue_ , that’s navy — that’s periwinkle — yes, blue, that’s the one, good girl.

"But you must have another name," Peggy persists.

Why? Do you?

"Of course. I’m Margaret Bridget Thompson Osgood."

Good heavens, what a mouthful. Why would anyone need so many?

"I don’t know. Everyone does. It’s…" She gulps. "It’s _mad_ not to.”

Mad. Oh, well, I suppose so. A bit of mad is good for a person.

"You’ve really never had another name? Never ever?"

Never ever. Though never is quite a long time, isn’t it? Maybe once I had a few more. Likely a mistake on my part. Curator is much easier to remember, I think.

"I think so, too," says Peggy. The Curator’s logic is inescapable. She was silly to think otherwise. "Maybe I’ll be just Peggy. Or just Osgood."

If you’ve put so much effort into memorizing something like Margaret Bridget Thompson Osgood then you might as well hang onto it. What do you think of the painting?

Peggy tilts her head to the side. Far to the side. “It’s a little crooked,” she says hesitantly.

It’s supposed to be. Didn’t I tell you?

"Maybe I forgot."

That’s what comes of wasting precious neurons on silly things like names.

"It’s very pretty, though. I like the colors."

Yes. They’re ecstatic. You would have liked the man who made it. He had a lot of adventures. Do you want to hear about him?

"Yes," says Peggy, because the Curator tells the best stories in the world, about a superhero more spectacular than any that Chloë watches on the telly. "Did he meet the Doctor?"

Naturally.

"Does the Doctor save him?"

The Doctor saves everyone.

 

***

 

Benny Davenport who sits next to her in school says that when he grows up he’ll be called Ben, so when Peggy grows up she’ll be called Peg.

Then he laughs.

So that night she announces: “I want to be called Osgood.”

Oh, Peggy, darling, wouldn’t that be confusing? You’d be the third Osgood in this house.

"Fourth," mutters Chloë.

Of course, Chloë, darling. The point is there are just too many Osgoods in this house. I’m afraid you’ll have to keep being Peggy, darling.

She crawls under the couch before bed (she still fits, but not for much longer, she wishes it were bigger than it looks from the outside) until she thinks that it doesn’t matter if she’s Margaret or Peggy or Peg. She can put her neurons to better use.

 

***

 

"You were right," says Peggy. "I have too many names. I’ll just be Osgood from now on."

Fine. Osgood, get my bag of Jelly Babies, they fell behind the stove again. And don’t step on the televisions. We’re going to use them to build a camouflage module.

"What’s a camouflage module?"

No idea, but doesn’t it sound fascinating?

 

***

 

There’s going to be a Science Fair.

"You’re entering, right, _Osgood_?” says Chloë.

Osgood leans over her desk to hide her spelling flashcards. Her marks aren’t good this quarter. “No,” she says, erasing an _E_ from the end of _CARROT_.

"Why not? You’re science-y."

"I’m not science-y, I just wear specs."

"Maybe you can build a robot dog with your barmy Curator."

"He’s not barmy," Osgood snaps. She’s erased a hole through the index card. "He knows _everything_. So there’s just no room for stuff that’s not important and that makes him—”

"What?"

Osgood will never say it. She pulls out another card and tries _CARROT_ again; this time she leaves out an _R_.

"Probably you shouldn’t anyway." Chloë picks at the polish on her thumb — Mum didn’t want her to wear it, but she called Dad in London and he said it was okay. She changes the color every morning; today is purple. The Curator would call it mauve or heliotrope or something else. "You wouldn’t win."

 

***

 

"There’s going to be a Science Fair," says Osgood.

Brilliant. What are you going to make?

"Nothing. I’m not entering."

Don’t be ridiculous. Have you seen my detector that goes ding?

"I think you left it in the refrigerator."

Did I? Ah, yes, there it is. Behind the celery. Why do I have so much celery?

"You like celery," Osgood replies politely, since to say _Because you’re really forgetful and keep buying bags of it without thinking_ is much too much like calling him _barmy_.

Quite right. So, Science Fair. We could make you your own detector that goes ding, but I don’t think there’d be anything to detect, do you? At least, I hope not. Perhaps we ought check. Is there new lunch meat at your school? Or was that from before? Or before before? I can’t remember.

It’s one of _those_ days. “I’ll come back later,” Osgood tells him.

No, no no no. You need a project.

"I told you, I’m not entering. I’m not science-y. I just wear specs."

You wear specs?

"Yes. I’ve always worn specs. The whole time you’ve known me I’ve worn specs, and not been science-y, and not been clever—"

Absurd. I don’t keep not-clever companions.

"I’m not entering." Osgood crosses her arms and stares at the Curator, refusing to look away, not even when he raises one hairless eyebrow and taps the side of his enormous nose. "I’m _not_.”

Then why did you bring it up?

"Because… because…"

Too late. Let’s search the attic for supplies. Just wait until you see what’s in the— oh, dear, I’d best check that trunk first, those spanners might still be set to— yes, I think we’ll wait till tomorrow. Yes. Come back tomorrow.

"All right. But I’m still not entering."

 

***

 

The dust from the Curator’s attic settles into Osgood’s lungs; after weeks of non-stop wheezing, Mum takes her to the doctor and she is given an inhaler which she uses at least three times a day.

But the resonating stapler — which can staple files from halfway across the room (though no one knows how) — not only wins first prize, it gets a little article in the local paper. Dad calls to congratulate her. Even Chloë stops teasing for a whole week.

And — though the Curator taught and showed and helped and encouraged and did all kinds of Curator-y things — _she_ built it.

So she doesn’t mind her inhaler so much.

 

***

 

"I won."

Of course you did. I told you you were not not-clever. Now, science-y girl, just wait till you see what I found.

 

 

 

 


End file.
